The Memory Of Her (Fox Tales)

It’s been so long, I can barely remember the soft brush of her cheek, the gentle caress of her plump lips over my skin. If I focus, I can picture the faint trace of her, the woman I loved. All those years ago, clutching my hands down in the shelter, the ground shaking over our heads, not knowing if the ceiling would hold. In those stolen moments, our sighs lost to blaring sirens, we found each other and the stark fragility of life compelled us to something more. Her hands, worn with labour, cracked with strain, ran velvet under my dress, rising up, caressing my legs. Her pinned hair shook free to catch in our kisses as her hungry mouth met mine, between the falling bombs, fear gave way to pleasure. I longed for the raids, the rush to the bunker, the tender passion in the dust filled darkness.
It was never the same, after the war, when our husbands came back changed men. I didn’t see her after that. Yet the faded lines, the broken outline of her, still remain, etched between these wrinkles.

Something about the blank half of the face made it feel like a distant memory, my very first go at fox tales, I have a few more ideas for this picture, so hopefully I will manage another.

Entry To Foxtales by @vermillionfox

Artwork by @vermillionfox - provided as the writing prompt